


Twisted Science might be our beginning, you know.

by Clockwork85, Izzydragoness



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Crying, Dark Molly, Domestic, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Forced Pregnancy, Hormones, Human Experimentation, Hurt Jim, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Relationships, Injured Moriarty, Jealous molly, Jim feels, Jim in a sweater, Jim needs cuddles, Kidnapping, M/M, Mpreg, Multi, Mycroft IS the British Government, Mycroft Worries, Oblivious Jim, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Jim Moriarty, Past Relationship(s), Protective Sherlock, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-03
Updated: 2017-02-14
Packaged: 2018-01-18 02:56:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1412386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Clockwork85/pseuds/Clockwork85, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Izzydragoness/pseuds/Izzydragoness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim Moriarty is kidnapped and used for twisted purposes, ones that even he can't remember, bring brutally harmed and damaged while being held hostage. When Sherlock comes to his rescue, it's more than clear that something is wrong, something wrong with Jim. He doesn't know at first, but it's something, and he refuses to let Jim back out onto the streets where he can be hurt. And when they find out why Jim is acting so different, Sherlock has to make a choice that he never thought he would make: devote or run.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Let it begin, dear.

**Author's Note:**

> So this was written because I'm tired and all so yeah um
> 
> It's bad and I'm bored, but I will continue it. As for followers of my other fic Rehabilitation, I PROMISE YOU I WILL UPDATE ONE DAY STAY STRONG

Jim knew not one bit how it happened, all that he knew was that he was falling. Everything was a blur, not a single memory prior to what felt like an endless plunge was clear. He couldn't remember where he was, he couldn't remember what he was doing, he couldn't remember anything.

He was Jim Moriarty, the man who had an empire of crime, a mind that could play and win any game any day, but this was not so on this day. The world was spinning around him like a top, his head swirling around like a massive tornado ripping through a town, destroying every last trace of everything there was, leaving nothing more than a blank wreckage of misery. In reality, he was lying on the ground, twitching and writhing in a fit, but in his mind he was falling, falling into nothing, never landing. 

He was in an empty office building, had set up a meeting with someone, but now he had not a single memory of who, not a single memory of why he was betrayed, not a single memory of anything but spinning. 

Jim Moriarty had been beaten at his own game. 

He remembered nothing when he was carried off, he remembered only spinning, only choking and gasping for air while he was oblivious to the world around him, he remembered it going black, and everything stopping.

It was quiet for the longest time, truly. 

But when he woke up in a dark, rotten smelling room, his head throbbing and his abdomen in searing pain, it was no longer quiet. He had no clue how he had gotten here, he had no clue how anything had happened, he was lost. 

He mumbled something weakly and buried his face in his hands, groaning. He was all alone, so, so lost. His vision was still quite blurred, the headache he was sporting did nothing to help either, hell, he was in pain. 

He attempted to look around the room, squinting helplessly to try to make his vision somewhat more effective for him, and it worked slightly, but only slightly. The place looked like a wreck, rust hanging from the walls and a dim yellow light coming from an unprotected bulb on the ceiling, a cot in the middle of the room against the wall. 

He started to panic. This couldn't be happening, he couldn't have been caught. 

He looked down at himself, his Westwood suit bloodied and stained with a strange smelling liquid that he couldn't make out, but it turned his stomach.

His body felt heavy, the pain in his chest and abdomen pulsing on and on. He felt as if there were stitches on him, something, some sort of evidence that he was cut open, he felt so drugged and tired. But that was the part that worried him the most, the tired part.

If he had been out all this time, he wouldn't be tired. He tried to stand up, but his legs gave the second he tried to move them, and he felt a wave of nausea hit him out of nowhere, causing him to collapse and heave up the contents of his stomach beside him, his head spinning again. When his body had no more to spit up, he gagged over and over again, his stomach doing flips. He whimpered on his hands and knees helplessly, his body ripping itself apart, mentally begging the gagging to stop. Tears dripping down his cheeks as he found himself in the most helpless situation he had ever found himself in.

Of course, it didn't, instead his body decided that getting rid of bile was a better idea. He heaved again, feeling himself slip off of his knees and his legs going numb, his limbs becoming soft and weak.  
His abdomen screamed of pain, his organs feeling like they were shutting down, he felt like he was going to die.

This was living hell. 

So when it finally stopped, when he truly had nothing more to bring up, he blacked out.

He didn't remember being dragged out of the room by someone, suddenly in an operating room, being sedated even further, the sound of a familiar man not able to reach his ears. 

If only he knew who was behind all this, if only he knew he was about to be used for the most concerning experiment yet, he might have tried to run. But of course, he couldn't. 

He also didn't know that labs had developed a way to extract genetics from other sources and change them so drastically, he knew none of any of anything they were doing, and even though he was now their rat, he wouldn't truly ever know.

When he woke up, it was quiet.  
Too quiet. 

He felt solid ground under him, hard solid ground. His head hurt and he felt groggy, his mind misty and scrambled. He could barely even lift his eyelids, so he didn't. He smelled that same rancid smell that he had heaved up earlier strongly in his mouth, making his stomach turn and causing him to let out a small whimper of desperation. He felt filthy, the smell of sweat and grime all over him, his once clean Westwood suit damp and wrinkled. 

\--

Sherlock knew nothing more about the case that Mycroft have him other than that there was a large conspiracy involving a kidnapping, of course, he had no plans to take it, none at all. 

Of course, when Mycroft's mouth turned into a hidden grin and he whispered a few words, Sherlock was off running. Well, all he actually did was show him a video that had been sent to him from an unknown location, a video of none other than Jim Moriarty being tortured and left dying, the cameraman spitting out threats related directly to the government, but that wasn't what truly made Sherlock's blood boil. It was when Jim, bleeding and whimpering helplessly under the grasp of the men choked a small cry for help, a cry for help. A cry for help from Jim. A small and desperate "Sherlly..." that was beaten off of his face.

That, and that the men who took him kept saying that they had done a large number of tests on him, turned him into their lab rat, did something amazing. Hell, they kidnapped him for science and for amusement, and they knew who they were mocking. They even went as far as saying exactly where they were, they wanted him to come.

Sherlock didn't even tell John about this, ever since he had moved out of 221B and went with his wife, most of their contact had weakened, he was truly alone, he felt so neglected. John obviously had more time for his boring Mary.

Mycroft watched him storm out of 221B, nearly forgetting his gun, he was going to need it. He was also going to need his own car, which Mycroft was nice enough to wearily lend. 

Hours went by, and Sherlock found himself outside of the city by now, driving on an empty road with only fields and small farms popping up from time to time. His mind was racing, filled with anger and rage. First John left him alone, then Jim came back and went away, but now he was here again, and he wasn't okay. Only he was allowed to hurt Jim, and him only. His mind had already figured out everything it could about the video that was shown to him, and one thing was clear, it wasn't a setup, there was no evidence of it being staged at all, other than the obvious, one other fact made that clear; Jim didn't like to get his hands dirty, and he would never expose himself to make something happen in such a way. 

But that wasn't what was truly stabbing at him, it was that tiny whimper, that helpless little "Sherlly..." That he whimpered out, how he was pounded up moments later, how he was clearly drugged, drugged with meds clearly used to sedate someone before an operation. 

When he pulled up at the abandoned building that was spoken of, not to his surprise at all, it was a hospital. What made it even worse, was that it wasn't all that run down yet, but here, in the middle of nowhere, lights on in the building in various places, he knew they were here. No one hurts Jim without his permission, no one. He stowed a full water bottle into his coat pocket along with his gun, although the gun stayed in his hand for obvious reasons. 

Jim didn't hear anything at that very moment, his head was shutting down, he had no idea how long he had been here at this point, but he was in pain. They beat him, they ruined him, they laughed at him when he heaved and kicked him in the chest until he was sobbing. However, he did hear the sound of bullets suddenly erupt from out of nowhere, he heard yelling, he heard enraged screams and terrified begging. The noise of the bullets ripped through his brain, his mind ultra sensitive at this point. He whimpered and covered his ears, flinching every time a shot rang out, a few tears escaping his eyes out of pain. 

Sherlock knew these men, he just did. He remembered them from Baskerville, but only their faces, for that's all he had seen. But now they were dead, and he felt a rage and dread mixing within him at a new wave of thoughts, if these men were from the same place that preformed project H.O.U.N.D, he was terrified to think of what they could have done to him, what they could have turned him into, let alone why. Why did they need him? Why did they use him?  
His mind raced, he needed to find him, he needed to save him. But truly, he already knew, he could see the evidence of it everywhere, the blood trails on the floor and the smell, the smell of vomit and death coming from a locked room.  
Jim was there, he had to be.

Jim whimpered on the floor, the noises of gunshots had stopped but they kept ringing out in his brain, agony pulsing through him. So when the door suddenly burst open, or at least that was what he heard, he covered his ears again in agony. He wanted it to be over, he hoped whoever had come to home was finally going to kill him and end this misery, but something quite different happened.

A pair of strong hands cradled his head and back, lifting him up gently, the pain of the movement caused him to cry out in agony, he couldn't take it anymore, he wanted to die, he wanted out. But he was hushed instead, the two hands pulling him upright and wrapping him in a comforting hug, hitting him hard with a sudden wave of emotions that made him begin to cry without him being able to control it. Then a voice came, and it all froze. "It's okay, it's okay, no one is going to hurt you- breathe, breathe Jim, don't die." It sounded so scared, scared. 

Sherlock. It was Sherlock's voice, Sherlock's arms holding onto him, Sherlock. 

He wanted to speak, he wanted to stay awake and by the least open his eyes, but neither was able to happen, he was too weak. Suddenly, he felt his head being tilted up by his warm hands and he heard the sound of a cap being twisted, and he felt liquid being poured down his throat, spilling onto his face and down his filthy clothing. "Drink." Sherlock urged him, sounding stressed and angry. He choked down the liquid, his stomach gurgling in distress at the sudden intake of something, and he felt himself sicken. He tried to weakly push away the bottle, but he couldn't, but he didn't have to, Sherlock must have seen his distress and stopped. The tears were still coming, and he still felt as if he was going to die, but this time, he slipped into darkness unwillingly, trying to reach out for the man who saved him as it all went black and quiet.

 

He woke up ten hours later, and it was quiet. His body felt sore and his head was still hurting, but far less than it was before. He whimpered and opened his eyes, wincing at the dim light that bombarded him, unwillingly closing them shut again. He felt that he was on something soft, his head resting against something that felt plush and there were blankets draped over him. He was somewhere safe and clean, he could smell it. He tried to open his eyes again, and whimpered at the light but managed to keep them open a while longer, but then had to close them shut. He repeated this again and again until he was able to keep them open, it hurt but he could. His vision was still a little scrappy, but he was able to see what was around him, and he felt his whole body relax when he realized where he was. He knew this room, it was Sherlock's bedroom, Sherlock's house, 221B. Oh wait, that was right, Sherlock came and saved him, saved him from those people. 

He felt warm, his body tired and his mind muddled with endless thoughts, he couldn't think straight, but to be honest he didn't want to at this moment. 

It was at that moment that the door opened slowly and light poured into the room, making him close his eyes again in pain. Sherlock entered the room and moved over to him, standing beside his bed. The last ten hours had been insane for him, not a single wink of sleep through the night, and he was sleeping on the couch anyways, not that he could get his mind away from Jim out of all of that. Jim was back, safe, but highly vulnerable. He wasn't going to tell Mycroft anything just yet, he was being sentimental. He despised it, the fact that his mind could do that, but them again, it was Jim. Jim was hurt, they took Jim. His Jim.

Jim weakly pulled the covers over his face, trying to hide from the light in his eyes, he wanted that damn door closed. Sherlock let out an annoyed breath and walked to the other side of the bed and fell onto it, hoping he could at least comfort the broken consulting criminal slightly by the least, but he doubted it. He lay on his back, arms above his head and atop the covers. There was a long and awkward silence for a moment, then Jim broke. 

He felt himself tear up again at the realization that he was being welcomed here, or at least he thought he was. But he didn't care if he was or wasn't, he just let the weakness of delusion come into his already jumbled mind and he curled up into a ball and wept softly, but then again, it could be because of how he was treated hours ago, although his emotions felt truly out of touch with himself. He felt a hand on his back, clearly trying to comfort him. "Please tell me you do not plan to stay like this." Sherlock said with a highly monotone voice, he had to quit the sentimental before it got worse. Jim felt himself overcome with anger for a moment and suddenly found the strength to sit up and try to grab for him, only to be shoved back down by a shooting pain in his abdomen, hitting the bed hard and whimpering. Sherlock decided that sentimental may actually be a better idea at the moment when this happened, so he reached out and continued the stroking motion on Jim's back, shushing him and mumbling a "sorry". 

Jim winced in pain, he didn't understand, what had they done to him? He couldn't even move for gods sake, his emotions were refusing to cooperate, he felt sick to his stomach and his abdomen was agonizing. He just wanted it to all stop. But he couldn't do that, he couldn't make it stop. For the first time, he felt helpless. 

Realizing that he was no true use, Sherlock stood up and moved over to fish through his dresser for some spare clothing he could wear, and managed to pull out a pair of baggy sleeping bottoms and a sweater of John's that he had forgotten when he moved out. He tossed it over to where Jim could reach it and walked out, closing the door behind him. "Do wake up when you can." He said, and it was quiet after that.


	2. Wobbly Bobbly Jim Moriatry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock thinks a lot, Jim cries a bit and struggles to get out of Sherlock's room and cries more and wears an over-sized sweater

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahhh i didn't think this would get 100 hits in 24 hours, not bad for a start, I'll give it that :D  
> Have another chapter in any case, i've had a lot of free time.

A few hours passed at that point and there was no sign of Jim waking up or moving at all, from Sherlock's end that is. Sherlock had been sitting on his couch,no, make that laying on his couch. He had wanted to ask mrs.Hudson to fetch some dinner but at the same time he was overly worried about Jim being found or something happening to him. His mind was brimming with thoughts, trying to figure out why Jim had been taken, what let the psychopath get into such a vulnerable situation. Sherlock knew very well he wouldn't just let that happen, he wouldn't have walked into the enemy's lair without thinking, no, he wouldn't even do that really. Jim always thought before he did, so the prospect of him walking into something that ended up with him being recorded and beaten and drugged was just odd, Jim would once again, NEVER let that happen to him. Even if he had a reason for that, he still doubted that it was a rational one, and Jim always thought rationally, so he couldn't believe that he would set that up.  
  
Sherlock eventually deduced that he must have been tricked, that he was set up. But not only that, but one of his highest up or well trusted clients would have had to done it, because he wouldn't go and find his clients on his own unless he trusted them, and they were a frequenter...or one of his own, no one gets to Moriarty. But what would have made them turn on him, hand him over to a bunch of scientists and let them use and abuse him without a single regret? It didn't add up, because doing that would be suicide, as the people that worked under him would have to had been watching, and they would have hunted and killed those responsible.  
   
It was enough to make him sick, to think that such betrayal could destroy someone like him, but it got worse. Jim, Jim would have trusted his higher ups greatly, it was rumored that he was in a relationship with his sniper, Sebastian Moran even. So what if it was him or another person he trusted greatly that got him into this? He couldn't imagine the feeling of betrayal that would be, to suddenly know that someone you trusted was capable of doing that to you, and it would shock Jim greatly, that was the even worse part.   
  
Sherlock had also deduced a while ago that under all of the mad insane person above, deep down in Jim Moriarty was a scarred man, a scarred man that he couldn't figure much out about other than that he once suffered from a possible eating disorder and had immense childhood trauma, but that was all he could figure out.   
  
Jim Moriarty truly was a puzzle that even the great mind of Sherlock Holmes could not solve. Perhaps that was what had drawn him in in the first place other than the fact that he was never bored when Jim had a puzzle for him, perhaps both. In the end, him and Jim had something special, it was clear to both of them, they completed one another, their minds matched on the playing field, their minds unable to beat one another no matter how hard they tried.  
  
Perhaps it was that, perhaps it was something more. He wondered how it would have been if Jim didn't fake his death, if he really was going to be alone in the end. To be abandoned by John, alone in his flat for the rest of his days, bored, he'd probably relapse even further than he had before, fall into a deep addiction. So when Jim came back, he was shocked on the outside but on the inside, he was happy...somewhat. Of course, he doubted it to the best of his ability that he would feel that way about the man that tried to kill him, but he did, and sadly, he was unable to deny the existance of how he felt.   
  
He was, in the end, truly intrigued by Jim Moriarty. This was new, not to mention. Sherlock had seen him when he was angry, insane, pleased, joking around and a number of other things, but vulnerable and weak? Now THIS, was new. But it wasn't only new, it was likable, he loved it a lot, he thought he had seen nearly everything but he was wrong, very wrong. This Jim wasn't all that bad, definitely far more manageable but also...incapable. But not incapable in a way that Sherlock didn't like, he actually liked this very much, to be able to see the consulting criminal up close, to see how else he is, without being attacked or having a sniper in your face.   
  
That was a perk, though. A lucky perk. For all he knew, his empire of crime probably didn't know about this yet, that's how he saw it. He had always wanted to get closer to Jim on a personal level, just to see more about him, but that had long evolved into something more, of course.   
  
He had made quite a few deductions over the course of the time, so it seemed. Then again, when your injured worst "enemy" is in the room next to you, sleeping soundly and confused as hell, chances are that you would think quite a bit.   
  
But at the same time, Sherlock felt somewhat angry at himself for how he had been treating Jim while he was here, simply tossing a few clothes at him and doing very little to comfort him with his pain, truly, he had neglected him. However, when he rescued Jim from being held hostage, he was doing everything he could to keep him comfortable, carrying him all the way to the car and placing his coat over him to keep him from freezing, Jim was absolutely cold compared to his own skin when he tried to lift him up, he ended up nearly frying the heating in the car making sure that there wasn't a single shiver coming from him, and it had worked. At that time, he was angry. Perhaps the fact that he was calm again made him less caring, no, it was the truth. He had to act like Sherlock Holmes again, not the caring Sherlock Holmes that coddled and housed the same person that tried to kill him, and hell, in the end, despite everything, this still could have been one of Jim's tricks, and he couldn't let his guard down at any costs. He wanted to let his guard down, seeing how horrid of a state he was in but he couldn't.   
  
At that exact moment, he heard rustling in his bedroom where Jim was sleeping, he had obviously woken up. Sherlock tended slightly at the sound, but was still calm. He had a bottle of pepper spray on him and a few other weapons in the flat, so really, he was fine. He continued to listen and was easily able to make out what was going on in the room by the noises he heard. There was a loud thump on the ground and a distressed groan and then the sound of fumbling around on the ground, then the sound of covers being thrown around and then silence.  
  
Sherlock couldn't help but grin ever so slightly in amusement, Jim had just fallen on the ground and was trying to get back up and on his feet, which based on the sounds that were now coming from the room, was not going well. The drugs in his system must have probably worn off by now, he was just weak and it was apparent that he was not very graceful when waking up.   
  
It made him seem far more human, oddly.   
  
  
Jim fumbled around on the ground, his legs weak and unable to stand. He felt far more awake now, but he was certainly stressed and quite unhappy about his situation, but he also felt quite relived all at once, he felt safe...or at least safer then when he was locked up in that goddamn room.   
He smelled like a dying animal and was drenched in sweat, still in his Westwood suit, no one must have been comfortable changing him...then again, who would be comfortable doing that? He was Jim after all, a freak. He felt filthy, violated and starving. He wondered how many pounds he must have lost during his time trapped in that place, he had't had a single bite to eat and was probably, and still dehydrated. He vaguely remembered Sherlock had tried to give him water and his body rejected it, but from what he recalled, he kept it down. At least he thought so, more or less hoped so to be honest.  
  
He spotted a pile of clothing on the ground, a pair of sleeping bottoms and a sweater, which he guessed was one of Watson's. He could vaguely remember Sherlock tossing a few clothes at him..no wait...on the floor and said that he could wear them...or did he put them there? Oh god, he couldn't think right now, he was still too scrambled. God, he felt so angry that he couldn't think, he was Jim. JIM. Not an idiot, not some sort of stupid weak normal person who had a normal low working brain. But he felt like that right now, he couldn't even make sense of the periodic table on Sherlock's wall, oh god he was so angry at himself. He felt so weak, his legs were too wobbly for him to stand up, and he feared that if he did anything too sudden, that horrid pain in his abdomen would decide to return and mock him again.   
  
The pile of neat clean clothing on the floor was egging at him, he just wanted to get into something other than his rancid smelling clothing, he just wanted them off. Jim didn't like his hands dirty, and they were filthy at this very moment, and it made his blood curdle with discomfort. He crawled over to the pile of clothing, making a considerable amount of noise as he tried to get closer. He managed to get grab the clothes and he just tore off his his top right away, fumbling around slightly and taking a few sad looking tries to finally get it off his head. He instantly felt a million times more comfortable, and tore off his trousers quickly after, underpants and all. He grabbed for the pants, they were soft, oh god, he was suddenly sobbing softly, what the hell was wrong with him? Why the hell was he crying?! _Grow up James, Stop it._ he told himself, but it didn't do much of anything to help him at all. He mumbled something weakly in a high voice and slowly started to dress himself, fumbling on the baggy pants and reaching for the sweater, when he weakly placed it over his head and onto his body, it felt soft, really soft. It was oversized for sure, it was big for him, probably one or two sizes larger than his size. He didn't mind, hell, he was PLEASED that it was larger, he just wanted to feel comfortable at the moment, he didn't care.   
  
What he did care about was the fact that he was still crying, something that he didn't want to do, something that he wasn't asking his body to do. This kept happening, he couldn't stop it. He just wanted it to stop, he didn't want to be this weak, he just didn't.  
  
Sherlock was listening to everything in the room over, taking everything in. Jim was crying quite hard, so it seemed, he had no clue why he was doing such a thing, but he wasn't going to go over and help him, he felt weary about doing such a thing.   
  
A few hours passed yet again, and it had started to get dark, and he was quite hungry. He had gotten a few things from the fridge and eaten a bit, but he was far too busy monitoring every single noise that came from his bedroom, making sure he knew exactly what was going in in there.   
  
His mind was wandering quite a bit, he felt somewhat nervous and at the same time, quite protective of the fumbling Consulting Criminal in his bedroom.   
  
He was sitting down on his couch, lost in thought when the door to his bedroom creaked open and Jim stumbled out, wearing the clothing he had provided, and a long bed sheet draped around him. Sherlock opened his mouth to say something but he was taken aback for a moment, and instead he went to analyze the wobbly consulting criminal.   
  
Bruises on the cheeks and rest of face, eyes appear avoided  
Bags under eyes, evidence of little to no sleep for days  
Four pounds lost rapidly  
Clear signs of dehydration and malnutrition  
Weakness in legs  
Emotionally unstable  
  
There was so much more, but he had to stop, he felt a pang of sadness for the Consulting Criminal, he was truly hurt, this wasn't an act. He watched as Jim stumbled over to a nearby chair and weakly collapsed down onto it, pulling up his knees defensively and tightening the sheet around himself out of fear. They both stared at each other in silence, both not sure what to make of the other.   
  
"So it seems you have finally...made it out of my bedroom in one piece?" Sherlock attempted to flatly joke, tilting his head forward as he spoke. Jim said nothing, only stared at him, distressed and weak.  
  
Sherlock grinned in amusement, this was going to be quite interesting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will say, there isn't a lot of mpreg sheriarty stuff, and it's all not much to my taste. It's mostly Sherlock at the one who's having the babies and if it's Jim, I can't say I've seen a domestic one at all, also, all the Omega and Alpha stuff, so hey, here's my contribution to the whole thing! I do enjoy all sheriarty stuff, but there's a lack of domestic stuff, let alone mpreg, so heck, i'll say it again, take my contribution and enjoy! ♥
> 
> -Nar


	3. questions, questions, questions.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim sits on Sherlock's couch and doesn't respond to questions, Sherlock makes tea and Jim shakes a lot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 8 subscribers already? Hey, not bad for a start. I don't expect this one to go far, but I can't say I don't enjoy it. The chapters will get a little shorter now, sorry about that. Other than that, enjoy!

Well, this was awkward. 

 

Jim stared nervously at Sherlock from the seat, curling his bare toes into the seat, tensing up. He didn't know what to say, and at the same time, he didn't want to speak, he had a horrid feeling that his voice would come out shaky, he didn't want to seem fragile to an enemy. Then again, he was a sniveling weak child to the people who captured him, so truly saying such a thing looked bad on him. He felt so pathetic and wanted this madness to end, he wished it never happened, and he couldn't even remember where he had gone, or why he was there. 

He felt so pathetic. 

 

He looked directly at Sherlock, and saw something quite different that made him feel even more pathetic. The consulting detective was sitting in a relaxed position, sitting loosely on the couch, somewhat slumped over and was breathing steadily. His eyes were fixed on Jim, probably examining him to see what he could find. He was probably finding a lot of things, and he didn't like it. He didn't want him looking over how frail and weak and pathetic he was, he didn't want him to know that, but he already did at this point probably. On the other hand, he himself was a wreck.  Heavy but short and quick breaths, sitting in a tense and defensive position, shaking slightly, probably nerves. His whole body was hurting in some way or another and his mind still was very scrambled, he had tried to make sense of the periodic table and still failed, to his frustration. He couldn't 

 

He couldn't lie though, he felt much safer here, and he did feel relived to be out, but at the same time, he was confused. As much as him and Sherlock were enemies, they did have something special, but he didn't think that he had it in him to rescue him...hell, how did he even know?

 

He nervously ran his hands through his greasy hair and opened his mouth to speak, praying that he would be able to control his voice so it wouldn't crack or shiver. "...How did you manage to find me?" Oh, shit, voice cracked. _Damnit Jim, Damnit._ He cursed himself for letting that happen, silently of course. 

 

But truly, that did bother him, how the hell did he know where he was? How did he find out? He wasn't able to figure that one out, and it made him even more upset and confused than he should have been, he usually knew everything before it happened, but this time, he didn't. 

 

Sherlock shifted forward slightly, and his expression hardened, looking him in the eyes, and to his surprise, Jim flinched slightly. "You were recorded." He said, and watched as Jim's face went pale and he tensed even further. 

 

"You're lying." Jim spat, shaking. He knew he was telling the truth, of course. But oh god, oh god no. They recorded him? When? Who did they send it to? Why did they have to show him to the world in that state?! He would have all those freaks killed, he would do it, he would have it done. 

 

"You're shaking again." Jim jumped, and realized he zoned out for a moment. He brought his attention back to the Consulting Detective, stressed. He couldn't think straight right now at all, damn himself for that. 

 

"Again?" He stuttered, trying to stay focused, but he now had even more things in the back of his mind, first why he was taken, and now what they had recorded of him. Oh god, how bad was he when they did that? The fact that he couldn't remember made him worried even more about the recordings, oh god, he was scared now. His mind nearly wandered again, but he managed to get back to reality before that happened. 

 

Sherlock nodded and lay back in his seat, and started to talk. "You've been shaking the entire time. The intensity of it varies though, it stops when you focus but when you let your mind loose focus it's far more obvious." He said, and Jim looked away slightly, he didn't like being deconstructed at a time like this, he really didn't. 

 

Truly, he should be more worried about his own health, he can't remember the last time he had eaten something and he felt dehydrated and weak. He needed food and water, he knew he wouldn't be able to keep either down, but he still needed them. 

 

He shifted in his seat, pulling the sheet he had dragged out of the bedroom around him tighter. "I-ah....need water." He mumbled, reluctant to ask for help but he knew he had to, or face his condition only getting worse.

 

Sherlock let out a bored sigh and stood up, he knew that question was going to come up sooner or later. Jim shifted uncomfortably as he walked by him, heading over to the kitchen. "You can take the couch, by the way." He added, and heard the sound of Jim scurrying over to it seconds later and the sound of an unceremonious thump followed by a grunt. 

 

He started a pot of tea and considered calling Mrs Hudson to fetch him something, he couldn't leave Jim alone in his flat, who knew what was terrifyingly capable of happening in even a few minutes of leaving that man alone, injured or not. Sherlock didn't doubt that a few minutes would be enough for bad things to happen by accident, even, it was Jim after all.

 

Actually, it was also about the fact that he was worried about him, but he did his best to mentally deny that part. But he did actually care, he just didn't want to physically or emotionally show it, but it was Jim after all, and of course, they had something special.

 

Sherlock turned around to see Jim laying on the couch on his side, facing him. He was still tightly curled up and withdrawn, stuck in a defensive position. "What about food?" He asked, and to his surprise, Jim squirmed uncomfortably. 

 

Well, not really, he had already figured out a long time ago that he had became highly ill when under captivity, although the fact that he showed discomfort upon water being poured down his throat was enough to make that all clear. The more he thought about it, the more he realized that Jim must have endured, and the worse he felt. 

 

Would it be logical to just let him leave all over again with this was done, or would it happen again? If it happened once, and he was able to be fooled, it would mean the people behind this would be smart, chances are they would be capable again. If he were to be allowed to go on his own again, who was he to say that he wouldn't be caught again? He was going to have to speak to Mycroft about this one. As much as he didn't fully trust Jim, he didn't want him to be hurt again. 

 

Sherlock turned back to the steeping tea  and grabbed a teacup for Jim, there was still a considerable amount of time before it would strengthen, he was basically giving him water with a small amount of tea at this point, but he would probably tolerate that better at this point. "I'll take that as a no." Sherlock finally responded, and returned  to the main room with the teapot and teacups. 

 

Jim reluctantly sat up, weakly trying to support his own weight. He was incredibly weak, he desperately needed some form of nutrition but he didn't trust his body. He watched as Sherlock placed the teapot and teacups onto the free armchair, spotting the filled one right away. He reaches out and grabbed it, almost burning his hands but still holding it carefully. 

 

Sherlock sat back in his seat, relaxed. "So, what did they do to you?" 

 

Jim flinched at the question and shifted uncomfortably, his mind flashing back to everything that happened, his hands shaking. He didn't respond, didn't want to talk about it yet. He just shook his head, and Sherlock tensed ever so slightly. Jim couldn't tell, but was he...concerned? 

 

Suddenly, there was a knocking at the door, and Jim nearly jumped out of his skin. Sherlock glanced over at him, and looked to the door. "Who is it?" He shouted, and waited for a response. To his relief, a familiar voice came from the other side. "Oh Sherlock dear, you know who it is!" The voice of Mrs. Hudson came from the door, and Jim tensed and Sherlock relaxed. "Come in." He said, and Jim shot a startled glare at him. "It's fine." He said quietly, and made a gesture to Jim before the door opened.

 

Jim didn't like where this was going, his face was all over London a while ago, so how the hell would she not recognize him? He had a bad feeling about this...a really bad one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> O shit here comes hudson! well, that shouldn't really be a problem though... 
> 
> will update in a few days or sooner.


	4. Mrs.Hudson, tea and worries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim keeps sitting around, Mrs. Hudson doesn't call the cops and Sherlock seems worried

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait ;-;

Jim tensed and sucked in a nervous breath of air as the sound of a key turning in the door unlocked it and that familiar landlady opened the door. Oh god, he didn't like this, had Sherlock gone mad? She was going to freak out and call the cops in a few seconds, he just knew it. 

 

Not only that, but there was no way he would be able to run if she were to do that, he was too weak and they would just arrest him and it would be over, oh god he hoped Sherlock was calm for a good reason. He didn't want to be hauled off now, he would rather die. 

 

"Sherlock dear, you haven't had any clients all week! Have you and John had a little- oh!" Jim jumped when the old lady stopped taking and looked over at him, she looked startled. Sherlock gave a bothered expression, he was going to have to explain more than a few things about this, that was quite obvious. 

 

Mrs. Hudson took a step back and paled. "Oh goodness! You're that fellow that was on every screen in London! Sherlock! What's he doing here?!" She panicked slightly, recalling who this man was. 

 

Sherlock gave a long sigh and gestured her to calm down. "Now now Mrs. Hudson, I can explain. Jim got himself into a terrible situation, and I can assure you he has promised not to cause any sort of problem while he is recovering." He glanced over to him and gave him a 'play along' glare. 

 

Jim was trying to make himself look  as vulnerable an innocent as possible, but he failed quite badly and looked more like someone who just got a bullet to the head as he already looked like he was dying, so it didn't really matter. 

 

He caught the hint and nervously nodded, trying not to panic too badly although he was probably going to have a panic attack at any moment. She looked like she was going to call the police at any second, and that part made him feel terrified. He wouldn't usually feel like this in this situation, but as it seemed his emotions were out to lunch, so that didn't help. 

 

Mrs. Hudson's eyes widened in shock, somewhat weary. "Oh." She whispered, looking over to Jim on the couch, and jumped slightly. "Oh dear, you do like you've been in quite the scuttle there, are you alright?" She asked nervously, clearly uncomfortable but trusting of Sherlock's word. 

 

Jim opened his mouth then closed it, uncomfortable and not sure what to say, this was just...too welcoming and sentiment for him. He squirmed in his seat, grasping the blanket he had wrapped around himself. He only shook his head, silent as a mouse. He could see in the corner of his eye that Sherlock kept glancing at him with concern, he seemed to know that this wasn't acting.

 

 That relived him very much...then again Sherlock could be acting, this all could be an act, a trap.

 

Sherlock gave a concerned look at mrs. Hudson and she seemed to feel quite nervous with Jim in the room. "Well, now that we have all the introductions through, Mrs. Hudson, Jim hasn't had a single bite to eat in days, if it isn't too bothersome for you could you perhaps fetch a few biscuits for him so he doesn't starve to death?" Both her and Jim's expression changed to shock. "O-oh goodness! Of course! You poor thing, no one should be stuck with an empty stomach for that long!" She babbled, and was gone before anyone could even respond. 

 

Jim let out a heavy relived sigh and managed to relax slightly, he could tell she was weary of him, but he hoped she wouldn't call the police on him. If she was to do so, boom, he's dead, no more Jim Moriarty.

 

Sherlock looked over at him, a sort of puzzled expression on his face. "She won't call Lestrade, if that's what's bothering you." He said, and Jim felt somewhat confused by the statement.

 

Did Sherlock really mean that? Or was he just saying that to calm him down? To keep him from loosing it, to keep him from running off or trying to hide from him? For gods sake, it was mrs. Hudson, Jim knew she didn't feel safe with him here, it was obvious, who was he to say that she wouldn't call? He bit his lip and caught himself shaking again, trying to calm himself weakly. Sherlock continued to eye him curiously, seeing what else he could deduce from the state of the once powerful consulting criminal, it was actually quite baffling to see him in this state, so vulnerable and weak. Hell, if Sherlock wanted to, he could easily kill him right here and now, not that he wanted to.

 

Jim nervously took a tiny sip of tea and cringed when he felt his body rebel against him, but it didn't feel as bad now, he could manage, or at least he believed he could. A frown crossed Sherlock's face when he saw Jim's discomfort, he was starting to feel more and more genuine concern for the criminal, he couldn't help himself but to feel that way. He didn't want to feel this way, but he did, he just felt plain old bad for him, he was so frail and sad looking. 

 

No, he didn't sort of feel bad, he FELT bad. Jim was genuinely hurt, he was in pain, he was stressed, weak, scared, he was suffering. Sherlock knew he had to help him, but how? He was refusing food and he doubted that food would sit well with him as of now based on how he was reacting to the tea he was given, in basic, he was in a real bad situation. Calling the hospital would be stupid, John wouldn't help for sure, it was all up to himself, really. 

 

"I'll be fine, sherl." Jim mumbled, trying to get him to stop staring at him endlessly, it made him uncomfortable. Jim knew he wasn't really fine, and he wouldn't be, but he didn't care, he was Jim Moriarty, not a weak sniveling normal person, that wasn't him. He didn't want to lower himself any further. Jim carefully took another tiny sip of tea, and it created that wave of nausea again, but he resisted it and shut his eyes, taking deep breaths. 

 

"You look ill." Sherlock said with concern, and Jim flinched. How was he supposed to reply? He knew that Sherlock was worried, he knew he was scared for him, but what was he to say? He didn't want help, but he wanted help at the same time, dear god he was just so confused. He opened his mouth to speak, but at that moment Mrs. Hudson knocked on the door and walked in with a platter of biscuits and fruits, a nervous grin on her face. "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson, ill pay you back later." Sherlock said with a nod as she walked over and placed it on the table. She turned and looked at him, baffled. "Oh, no dear it's fine this time, don't worry about paying! Now, do make sure you eat up dear, don't want to starve to death do you?" Mrs. Hudson babbled on as she left the flat, Jim looking uncomfortable and tense. "She talks quite a bit, I know." Sherlock said, trying to calm him down at least a bit. "I'm aware." Jim replied, feeling quite invaded at the moment. 

 

Things could be worse though, couldn't they?


	5. Suppliments

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock tries to get Jim to eat, but it's not the easiest thing in the world so it seems.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh look, it updated. Also I watched every Sherlock episode now so expect better characterization, your welcome.

The two just sat and stared at each other for the longest while, not knowing what to say to the other. It was as if a silent tension was holding onto each of them and wouldn't let go until the other spoke, and neither had spoken a single word to the other yet. It was as if they were to scared to say a word, the possibility of messing up was far too strong, something that Jim never truly considered himself sensitive about until now.

 

At last, Sherlock opened his mouth and tried to start conversation, but he was more interested in learning of what happened to Jim while he was held hostage, he knew the basis just by looking at him, but he would prefer to hear it from Jim's mouth any day, that way he could tell a lie from a fact much easier. Being the master of a criminal network, he had to be a master of disguise, and in the end he still could have faked this whole thing undoubtedly, but the one thing that was impossible to fake was words, lies had detail, and Sherlock could tell a lie from miles away.

 

"What did they do to you while they had you captive?" He asked simply, his hands brought together and right up near his face, sitting hunched over and leaning towards Jim's direction. He flinched, he already didn't like that question at all. Jim bit his lip nervously, a tiny twinge of pain going through his bruises and wounds as his mind subconsciously recalled the blur of events, the slaps and kicks he was given over and over again, the constant drugging and confusion he felt, the starvation and weakness, all of it. He felt his pulse elevate and his body shiver slightly as a hit of anxiety came at him, just the thought of the place made him feel nauseous.

 

He closed his eyes and shook his head, pulling the bed sheet he had wrapped around himself a little bit tighter to try and gain at least a slight feeling of comfort, but it didn't work. Sherlock just watched as the man that he considered a deadly, horrid threat shiver on his couch as if his nerves were out of control, unable to keep calm, his body bruised and rancid smelling and his abdomen terribly small and thin from days without eating. He looked like death, plain old death. It hurt to look at him, to be fair.

 

"Jim." Sherlock spoke again, trying to calm him down as best he could, he knew that he wouldn't let him touch him if he tried but he had to do something, he was actually feeling awful for him at the moment, he had never seen him reduced down to this and he didn't like it one bit, he wanted to fix it. Jim took a few deep breaths before looking back at Sherlock who was now staring at him with a sort of nervous gaze, his eyes locked on the Consulting Criminal as if it would equal death to look away, Jim didn't know why, but It made him feel safer, even though he should feel nervous.

 

He opened his mouth and at last, he spoke. "I don't know." He forced out, his his voice coming out sounding like a sort of weak and upset croak, shaking his head as he spoke. "It was all a blur, I don't know what they were doing to me." He kept shaking his head, his nerves not coming off their high spot at all. Sherlock looked at him with an expression of empathy, he wasn't lying so it seemed.

"They had you drugged."

"They did."

"Why?"

Jim stopped, feeling somewhat pressured and nervous at this point. He didn't know, he really didn't, he wanted Sherlock to stop asking. He just wanted to feel better, that was all he cared about. "I don't know." He repeated, shaking his head once again, feeling distressed.

 

Sherlock stood up all of a sudden, Jim giving him a nervous look as Sherlock suddenly was much taller than him, it made him feel exposed. "Where are you going?" He asked carefully, watching as he walked into the kitchen and opened the fridge, obviously looking for something, clattering about slightly. "Mrs.Hudson's taking too long." He said in annoyance and pulled out the milk from the fridge, putting it back for one moment and making a bit more noise before pulling it out again and starting in the direction of the living room. Jim frowned weakly, oh, this was about food. 

 

Sherlock came back over to the living room with the milk container in hand and walked over to Jim's teacup and poured a small amount of milk into the tea water, Jim giving him an expression of shock for a moment and gesturing him not to do so.

"Sherlock-"

"It's barely an ounce."

Sherlock returned to the kitchen and put the milk back in the fridge before walking back over and sitting down, Jim staring at him with a sort of 'how could you' look on his face. He stared at his teacup that now had a small amount of milk in it with disgust before looking back up at Sherlock, annoyed. "I can't drink that now." He said in the firmest voice he could attempt to create, which was quite weak to be fair when considering his current condition.

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes, he knew that he could but the fact that his stomach had been nothing more than a rotten pile of flesh that rejected everything that went near it was what was making Jim think that he couldn't. Sherlock was somewhat surprised actually, he would have thought that Jim would know that by now, something was wrong with him if he couldn't figure out that he was fine and his body needed food and that's all that it needed. His body was tampered with, it was clear as day, but the question was if he knew that himself.

 

"Try." Sherlock insisted, but Jim just shook his head in response. "I can't." He mumbled, staring at the cup as if he had a sort of grudge against it now.

 

At that exact moment, there was a knock at the door and Mrs. Hudson walked in with a tray of biscuits, just as Sherlock had asked. "Here you go dear, now, you two play nice will you?" Jim frowned, she was blabbing again and he didn't like it, but he simply nodded in agreement so that she wouldn't call the cops on him, it was clear that she was trying to find an excuse for doing so.

 

"Thank you Mrs.Hudson." Sherlock simply said as she left as fast as she had come, as if she was only there for a second in the first place. Sherlock watched as the door shut and listened for the sound of her footsteps to reach the ground floor before he looked back at Jim, who to his shock, had actually picked up the teacup when he wasn't looking. Sherlock couldn't help but grin.

"Change of heart?"

"Better than eating those." Jim mumbled in reply, nervously bringing the teacup to his lips and taking a small sip and forcing himself to swallow. He felt his stomach turn instantly and closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths, but it wasn't as bad as the first time he tried to intake liquids. Sherlock watched him with worry, but there was mostly satisfaction on his face. Jim took another sip and then looked directly at Sherlock, a face of realization painted onto him. "You spiked it with supplements, didn't you?"

 

Sherlock grinned with amusement and a hint of pleasure to see that he had picked up on that, he seemed to be slowly recovering. "Simply trying to keep you alive."


	6. Wait- is this an update? (READ)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holy crap, read on.

Okay, so hey. Holy shit! An... update?

Long story short; this is my new account, I'm bored and part of me wants to continue this.

Wow. It's been a while.

Anywhore! This is my new account and I'm here now. Also I'm much more N A S T Y and probably write better. Just adding that in.

Not sure when this will update, but I'm here now.


End file.
